Old Annersley came running. But Young Pete, the lust of the chase
spurring him on, had disappeared around the corner of the cabin after
the hen. He routed her out from behind the haystack, herded her
swiftly across the clearing to the lean-to stable, and corralled her,
so to speak, in a manger. Just as Annersley caught up with him, Pete
leveled and fired--at close range. What was left of the hen--which was
chiefly feathers, he gathered up and held by the remaining leg. "I got
her!" he panted.

Annersley paused to catch his breath. "Yes--you got her.
Gosh-A'mighty, son--I thought you had started in to clean out the
ranch! You downed my rooster and you like to plugged me an' that
heifer there. The bullit come singin' along and plunked into the
rain-bar'l and most scared me to death. What in the ole scratch
started you on the war-path, anyhow?"

Pete realized that he had overdone the matter slightly. "Why,
nothin'--only you said we was to eat that hen for supper, an' I
couldn't catch the dog-gone ole squawker, so I jest set to and plugged
her. This here gun of yourn kicks somethin' fierce!"

"Well, I reckon you was meanin' all right. But Gosh-A'mighty! You
might 'a' killed the cow or me or somethin'!"

"Well, I got her, anyhow. I got her plumb center."

"Yes--you sure did." And the old man took the remains of the hen from
Pete and "hefted" those remains with a critical finger and thumb. "One
laig left, and a piece of the breast." He sighed heavily. Young Pete
stared up at him, expecting praise for his marksmanship and energy.